


Copper and gold

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Truckers, Hitchhiking, M/M, Neurodiversity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't pick up hitchhikers but he can't help himself when he sees Crowley getting steadily wetter in the rain one night.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 165
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sani86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/gifts).



> The idea belongs to Sani. It's my yet another attempt at writing a slow burn. Wish me luck?

As a rule, Aziraphale doesn't pick up hitchhikers. They might recognise him as  _ that  _ Fell brother who refused to participate in his brothers' financial machinations, which ultimately led to the demise of the Fell business empire. 

Besides, Aziraphale knows it isn't safe. He might want to help everyone he can but he doesn't intend to end up injured or dead because he's too naive, too trusting. He can see the headlines each time he notices a hitchhiker -  _ An Oxford alumni and an heir to the Fell fortune found dead in a gutter; why did he decide to become a truck driver anyway? _

No, he doesn't pick up anyone, he just does his job, listening to various audio books. Sometimes he listens to the news too, but these days it's just more dirt the press has dug up on his brothers. So, it's no news and no brothers and no bother. He wants to remain unknown. 

Yet, that boy catches Aziraphale's eye and makes Aziraphale feel like a fucking predator, but it's raining cats and dogs and the boy is soaking wet. 

"Are you old enough to travel on your own?" Aziraphale asks. 

"Yes, sure!" The boy readily produces an ID. Aziraphale shouldn't trust someone who has his worn out passport at the ready, but his sparkling jacket is wet and his red hair is plastered to that forehead and cheekbones… The boy looks like a lost prince. There's a violin case in his hand and a big old backpack on his shoulders.

"Where do you need to go?" Aziraphale asks, trying to be louder than the rain. 

"Somewhere." The boy shrugs. 

"Get in." Aziraphale hates himself for being unable to refuse a young man in need. He has refused many a young man in need, although none of them has been that… beautiful. Not to mention the violin.

The boy climbs up, but doesn't sit. He pulls out an old towel and covers the seat with it. Then he sits down. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

"How long have you been waiting?" Aziraphale asks before he can think any better. 

"About six hours," the boy answers easily. 

And then there's a string of curses and shaking hands. The boy has long limbs so his hands are everywhere. 

"Sorry. Tourrete's."

"It's alright, dear. Do you need me to help you reach for your medicine?" Aziraphale offers. He's too soft, he's been told by his brothers, both physically and emotionally. Maybe it's the true reason behind his unwillingness to help…

The boy looks at him sharply. "I don't take it. I have it. Toss me out, if you want, but I won't take it. Makes me numb. Can't play music. Can't think. They tried to force mom to medicate me, but she refused… They almost took me away from her."

"I'm… I'm sorry to hear it…"

"Crowley."

"Crowley. I'm sorry to hear it. Where is your mother? I might try and get you…"

"Six feet under," Crowley interrupts. "Being a poor single parent with everyone breathing down your neck is exhausting. She drank. She never abused me." Crowley seems frozen for a moment, before he's cursing and swaying his limbs again.

"Sorry…"

"No. It's fine. Just move a bit towards the window. We wouldn't want to get into an accident in this rain, would we?" Aziraphale forces himself to smile. 

"Thank you… that's… you really are an angel."

"Was named after one. Aziraphale."

"Suits you. Thank you."

They are quiet for a while.

"I don't have anywhere to go or stay. I'm homeless. Can I… stay with you? I busk, I can make some money…"

"My dear boy, stay as long as you need. Just don't rob or murder me."

"Why would I do that? You helped me. All the others before you… either they propositioned me or demanded money or threatened to call the police. I mean, I am criminally pretty, but that's not exactly an invitation." 

Crowley smiles at Aziraphale. It's a smile to conquer the earth and sea, to send a thousand men running for their lives and covering their eyes. It's so bright in the darkness of Aziraphale's truck. 

***

For someone so young and wearing a black sparkling jacket in this weather, Crowley seems to be quite organised. Aziraphale wakes up to the smell of a fire and the sound of bubbling water. 

He climbs down from his bed, sees Crowley's surprisingly good sleeping bag rolled up neatly and resting on the passenger seat. 

Crowley himself is outside, wearing sweatpants and a sweater. He's squatting by the fire, humming a tune, his head jerking back and forth. He looks boneless and elegant. His hair is a mess but it's copper and glory. 

"Morning!" He gets up awkwardly. His head keeps jerking back and forth, his mouth is twitching. He's biting his lip.

"Morning. You're… very… well-equipped."

"I grew up in a caravan and poor. I know how to… survive in the wild. What to spend the money on." Crowley scratches his head. "Mom left me some money. Could have paid the rent for another month… but I bought some good camping equipment instead. Really helped me. Keeps helping me. Tea or coffee?" 

It's the best tea Aziraphale has ever tasted. It might be the cheapest brand, but Crowley has found some herbs to add into it and he carries a small jar of honey. 

And he makes instant noodles taste like the most delicious meal. It feels nourishing and it feels good. Crowley keeps biting his lip. 

"My boy, I won't break over a few curses…"

It's not a few curses. It's a drunken sailor running amok. Crowley bites his lips again. 

"I don't care, it's alright," Aziraphale says. He's feeling useful, he's feeling… necessary. There's something he can give this boy - and he doesn't even have that much. Perhaps it's not the best beginning for a friendship, but helping Crowley feels right. Aziraphale doesn't want his gratitude. He wants to see that bright smile open like a block of noodles in the boiling water. Oh dear, Crowley makes instant noodles beautiful. What will Aziraphale do with him?

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

A few days into their travels, Aziraphale enjoys a cake that doesn't really deserve to be enjoyed, but Aziraphale appreciates its sticky, sinful goodness. It's just a gas station on the outskirts of a small town, but Crowley has said that he will go and try to earn something. 

It breaks Aziraphale's heart that someone so young and vulnerable has to put on a very serene face, wear his cleanest clothes and walk into an unknown town to look for some work. In Aziraphale's opinion, Crowley deserves better. Actually, in Aziraphale's opinion, everyone deserves better. Aziraphale feels the hair on the back of his neck rise in fear and sadness when he thinks about the fact that Aziraphale's truck is the only place the boy can go to. Everyone deserves a home, be it a person or a place. Or a truck… Aziraphale just doesn't believe that, given a choice, Crowley would have settled for a truck. Or Aziraphale's company. 

It's better to think about the cake. It's not that bad. Aziraphale can afford a tastier and fresher cake, but going anywhere implies that someone might recognise him. His picture was everywhere in the news during his brothers' continuing downfall. Aziraphale couldn't listen to what they said about him but a family lawyer called Aziraphale once to tell him that no one actually tries to blame him… 

Aziraphale chuckles. 

Of course Gabriel and Sandalphone tried to blame Aziraphale for their machinations, but alas, Aziraphale couldn't be blamed for anything, since there wasn't a single document with his signature, he had an alibi for every shady deal.

The lawyer actually did his best to calm Aziraphale, knowing fully well that Aziraphale would blame himself without any accusations thrown his way. 

Aziraphale decided to become invisible and invisible he is. A truck driver with a posh accent that can be a bottom of someone's jokes but he's safe and no one seeks his approval. 

It's safer that way, even if his brothers demanded he gave away his share of fortune before he left. As far as Aziraphale is concerned, it was worth it. 

He finishes his cake and slowly walks back to the truck. Crowley has asked him to give him four hours. He sounded confident. He looked smooth and cool. A lost prince, indeed. 

Aziraphale opens a book and stares at the first page for a few long moments. Crowley's been gone for two hours already. His backpack and violin are on the passenger seat, a bit ghostly in the overwhelming sunset. Aziraphale finds himself wondering if Crowley's things will just disappear into the light if the boy doesn't come back. 

He's not a boy, Aziraphale corrects himself. He's twenty. A young man. Not old enough for a man, not young enough for a boy, Aziraphale remembers. There's the same genderless grace to him that both Viola and Sebastian possessed. 

Aziraphale watches the sun set. He's ahead of his schedule, per usual. Nothing distracts him, and now there's Crowley who… takes care of him. Makes him coffee and tea, grumbles about the necessity of something better than noodles, finds chestnuts and roasts them. 

It's a memory Aziraphale wants to keep bright and fresh till his last breath - how Crowley walked into the woods not two days ago and returned with chestnuts. 

It was unwise, to stay up so late, but Aziraphale couldn't make himself get up and go to sleep when Crowley sat by the fire, glaring at the chestnuts and actually threatening them to turn out well. Either Crowley is that scary or he's just a good cook, but Aziraphale hadn't ever eaten such delicious chestnuts. 

Crowley roasted a few in the remains of his honey thus providing Aziraphale with a sweet snack. 

He promised he'd check whether Aziraphale did his teeth but Aziraphale didn't find it funny. Crowley cared, and… it had been a while since someone did, especially on such a basic level. 

Lost to his thoughts, Aziraphale doesn't notice Crowley's return and so he snaps his head to the side when someone climbs in. 

"Hey, angel, it's just me," Crowley raises his arms. 

His arms are full of cheap plastic flowerpots. He doesn't understand what he does to Aziraphale with that simple phrase. It's not just Crowley. There's nothing just there, in any sense of the word. 

"What… what is it?" Aziraphale asks. He's too tired because it's been a long time since he's been happy, and he is so happy now. So happy to see that skinny boy with that smile and that serenity, with those eyes which Aziraphale only noticed when Crowley made him tea their first morning. Mismatched and clever, so clever. Knowing. His left one yellow and his right one black and unmoving. Crowley hides them behind the sunglasses, yet not from Aziraphale. 

"Basil, rosemary and tomatoes. Your dashboard is a good place for them." Crowley arranges the pots on the dashboard. "This way we will always have tomato soup. Bought some honey too. And we should stop by the nearest recycling station. I'll make some new pots for them." Crowley looks at Aziraphale - for approval or just so, although, again, there's nothing just here.

He slowly tugs off his sunglasses. Smiles at Aziraphale as if unaware that the sun has set.

"So… we have a garden now?" Aziraphale tries for nonchalant and fails. 

"We do." Crowley is serious again. His hands shake and his head moves from side to side and he curses, closing his eyes, letting the tick wash over him. Breathes in and out, bites his lips.

"Sorry, angel."

"Don't apologise. You can't control it."

"A great way to discover unexpected kinks in your partners, I've discovered." Crowley sounds bitter. Aziraphale finds the thought of Crowley having sex bitter as well. No schoolboy or girl could have been able to give Crowley the love and the care he deserves.

"Aren't you too young to have sex?" Aziraphale asks stupidly.

"No. And honestly, being almost always suspended and high on hormones, I couldn't find much else to do. Mom homeschooled me most of the time anyway. Was just safer for me to go to school too… Or they'd have taken me away from her. Neither of us wanted it."

"What… what work did you find?" Aziraphale steers away from the topic and the gas station. 

"Flower shop. Helped the old lady there with some heavy stuff. Got some money and these three." Crowley nods towards their little garden. 

The rest of the evening Crowley cuts plastic bottles into flowerpots. He's very handy with the knife - and every other tool in his old Swiss Army knife. They stop for sleep late at night. 

Aziraphale can't sleep.

"What is it, angel?" Crowley asks from his place, sprawled across the seats. 

"Can't… can't sleep."

"I've noticed. What's bothering you?" 

Aziraphale hears him sit up and shuts his eyes. The problem is that neither darkness, nor closing his eyes can help him avoid seeing Crowley.

"I'm old and on the run," Aziraphale replies. 

"On the run from what?"

"Doesn't it scare you, dear boy?"

"No. You can't scare me. You shielded me from rain and you're my angel."

"You're very naive."

"Bollocks. I'm trusting maybe, but not naive. What's wrong?"

"I was born into a wealthy family. Grew up in a grand mansion. Harrow, Eton, Oxford. I was the youngest. Never been interested in the family business, but my parents were alright with it. I just started teaching when they died. My brothers are ruthless. They think they know what the right thing is. To them, the right thing was getting richer and more powerful. They started by tax avoidance. They wanted me to join them. They wanted to bribe me into silence when I refused. After some years I told them that I don't want to have anything in common with them. They told me to give up my share of inheritance, which I did without a second thought. Severed all ties with them. 

"But I was afraid. I thought… what if they frame me for something? I was gaining reputation, I had a career, I had things to lose.

"I gave it all up, got rid of everything I owned and found a job as a truck driver. 

"Both my brothers are in prison now. Tax avoidance is the least of their worries and crimes. The press tried to find me. I saw my picture in the papers and on TV. The family lawyer is the only person I stayed in touch with. He called me to say I shouldn't be worried. He knows me too well." Aziraphale chuckles into the darkness. "The point is I was so scared of being involved that I didn't stop them. I don't think I could. But I should have tried at least."

Aziraphale hears shuffling and curses, then Crowley is behind him, holding him. "You're an angel, ok?" Crowley's hold is fierce and soft. Aziraphale can't help turning around in his arms and hiding his face in Crowley's neck. It's totally inappropriate, but Crowley offered him comfort and Aziraphale isn't going to refuse it. He sobs once.

"You cry, if you want. It's ok. But you sleep too. I'll make you your tea in the morning. And I'll find you more chestnuts. You're not alone anymore."

Aziraphale sobs again. Crowley keeps talking. "I'll take your laundry to a laundromat. When you're back home…"

Crowley stops.

"Yes?"

"You'll feel better."

"But you'll stay with me, right?" Aziraphale raises his head, although he can't see Crowley. "You are welcome to stay as long as you need. You don't need to be with me all the time."

"No, angel. You're my angel, my guardian angel. I'm not leaving you."

"Shouldn't it be vice versa, my dear?"

"No," Crowley replies unperturbed. "Not leaving you." He wraps himself around Aziraphale, which should be ridiculous, because he's skinnier, smaller, younger, more vulnerable, but he feels safe. Feels like home and a new beginning. 

"Sleep, angel. I might curse in my sleep, but it doesn't happen much. Sleep."

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update day. One now and one in the evening.

Maybe the Lord invented Tourrete's just for this, Aziraphale thinks when he watches Crowley play for the first time. He can't comprehend how he could think that it was a violin. Crowley plays the viola, which raises all sorts of Shakespeare-related thoughts in Aziraphale's mind, but it's not just mastery, not just skill and not just talent. The way Crowley plays makes Aziraphale think of Doctor Faustus and Gustav von Aschenbach. He doesn't want Crowley to pay  _ that  _ price for his gifts but after all he was born with the price already being paid. 

He's standing there, on a crowded street that grows even crowdier with every moment, every movement of Crowley's fingers and hips. He can't stay still, but the way he moves, jerkingly, abruptly, awkwardly is the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen. "Come watch me, angel," Crowley has said with a wink. "Bring me luck, save me from a furious crowd."

Aziraphale isn't a violent man by any means, but he wishes he could kick every person who has made Crowley feel like  _ a freak _ , as Crowley told him with a shrug, in the balls. Maybe twice. 

And Aziraphale is definitely too old to think of handsome devils and their temptations, but Crowley is there, a mad, drunk exclamation point with a viola and a sparkling jacket. 

Crowley ends his performance and looks around. His sunglasses somehow relay his confusion at the applause and quite some money in the viola's case. "Ehm… thank you?" Crowley says, uncertain. "I'm all wet and stinky and frankly scared of the number of you… Bye!" 

He runs away and Aziraphale only finds him back by the truck. "Good news is I bought myself a phone," Crowley says when he sees Aziraphale. "Bad news is… that's fucking scary. Never played in a big town before. Where do you live?"

"London." Aziraphale sits on the ground next to Crowley. 

"Never gonna play there."

"You're magnificent, dear. You should be paid much more…"

"Shut up, angel. I'm an autodidact, and… it really helps with my ticks. And can bring some money. Never enough to buy a phone, though. Oh, and I bought you a thermos." He hands Aziraphale a solid thermocup that promises to keep Aziraphale's drink either hot or cold, depending on what Aziraphale wants. It looks like something out of a sci-fi novel. 

"You shouldn't have…"

"Like fuck I shouldn't have! Want you to have a good thermos. Aziraphale, you can't even start a fire! I mean, you can, but judging from what I've seen it won't be a fire, it would be a fucking arson!" He keeps cursing, swaying his arms in the air. His cheekbones are so red it might count as an arson too.

"Let me in," Crowley asks once he stops moving. Well, he never stops moving, it's the price of the music… it's fucking stupid, fucking cruel! Aziraphale won't romanticise Tourrete's, just the way Crowley copes with it… That he will romanticise, because it's awesome.

"What?"

"Into the truck! Let me in! I can't bear being seen, ok? Fuck, I have a phone now, and some…" There's a long obscene rant. "They uploaded a video of me playing. I just wanted some viola porn. And saw myself." Crowley covers his face. "Please, let me in, I can't bear it, please, angel."

Aziraphale quickly unlocks the truck and Crowley is inside and hiding in his sleeping bag the next moment. 

"My dear, but you're spectacular…"

"Shut up! No! I stole my neighbour's wifi to watch all those videos… Sex got boring, lessons grew boring… Please, angel, no… I don't need to earn being treated like a human because I'm too… sick…. I'm sick enough to play the viola the way I do. Please, angel…"

Aziraphale climbs inside and locks the doors. "I think you should take the bed tonight, my dear. It's… darker there."

"Your bed. I'm ok."

Aziraphale closes his eyes which yet again doesn't help, because there's Crowley who's all tremolo, tremolo, tremolo, trembling and shaking, is wilder than any sex Aziraphale has had, wilder than any fevered dream Aziraphale has seen. 

There's tremolo, tremolo, tremolo. There's pizzicato. There's a neverending crescendo, a deal with the devil that Aziraphale doesn't believe in, because there's no devil, there's autism, ADHD, Tourrete's and many more to be turned into demons by cruel people, and no, Aziraphale's thoughts don't listen to him, not at all. 

"You've overwatered our garden," Crowley complains. 

"You haven't watered them!"

"They don't need to be watered all the time! They aren't having anal sex and don't need extra lubrication! You're spoiling them!"

"Or letting them have fulfilling anal sex, dear boy!"

"They don't have an anus! They don't have sex like that! They are plants!" Crowley manages to say  _ plants  _ with disdain and admiration at the same time. 

"Their loss." Aziraphale shrugs.

"They don't have a prostate! Or a g-spot!"

Aziraphale tries to laugh quietly. Crowley sticks his aquiline nose out of his sleeping bag. "Ew," Crowley concludes. "They are plants. Plants! They are doing fine!" Crowley waves, no, jerks his head dismissively, then puts a drunken sailor to shame yet again. 

"My dear, your cursing is exquisite!"

"No, it's not! It's Tourrete's!"

"Still exquisite!" 

"Stop spoiling our soup!"

"Lubrication isn't spoiling!"

They are both laughing then. Aziraphale laughs like he sobs, however, and no, Crowley doesn't ignore it. 

"Angel… angel, are you alright?"

"You're so talented, Goethe… Crowley! Fuck!"

"You curse too. Have a crush on Goethe too."

"I  _ never  _ had a crush on Goethe! I always preferred Shakespeare!"

"Nah, he's too gloomy. Old age caught up with him. Ghastly. Dreadful. Bleurgh!" 

"Did you eat, dear boy?"

"Fuck, knew I forgot something!"

"Don't move!"

"Can't promise that…"

Aziraphale doesn't listen to him. He exits the truck and walks a long way to the nearest supermarket where he buys a lot of apples and Greek yogurt and some cheese. 

Crowley is making a valiant effort to remain immobile when Aziraphale comes back an hour later. 

***

Crowley plays just for Aziraphale when they are in Aziraphale's apartment. Aziraphale is taking a shower and then he hears it, hears that tremolo and that pizzicato. 

Aziraphale hasn't prayed in years, but he looks up at the shower head then. He can't pray, he's lost that ability while dancing around his sexuality as a child, but he whispers Crowley's name into the steam around him, wishes wordlessly for his safety and comfort. 

"Your flat is cozy. All those books…" Crowley is… spread all over Aziraphale's sofa when Aziraphale exits the bathroom. 

"Couldn't sell them."

"Books are good friends. Captain Ahab would never judge me." Crowley is wearing no top, Aziraphale realises, and he's holding Moby Dick in one twitchy hand. "I know it by heart, this book. My mom's favourite. We used to reenact it when neither of us wanted to do the dishes."

"Do you… do you want to visit her grave?" Aziraphale asks. 

"No. Why? It's not her anymore. I sing the body electric while it's still electric. While there's a… drive inside. Death makes the whole dichotomy of body and soul all too bare… and it's false, you know." Crowley's right arm is under his head, and his left arm is stretched in front of him, Moby Dick in his hand. "Wilde said it. There's no body without a soul and vice versa. When someone dies, their body belongs to the universe, not to themselves. She's gone. The whale is still out there." Crowley whispers what he's reading and ignores Aziraphale in all his towel clad glory. Crowley's yellow eye is moving frantically and Crowley's right eye is fixing the universe just by being unmoving and unmoved. What does the universe have over Crowley's black and dead eye? It can only freeze and offer him a glance at the position, if not the momentum.

"You're going to sleep here?" Aziraphale asks. There aren't many options, but Aziraphale knows that manners are there for pretense and comfort, and he has a relatively good bed and Crowley has been keeping him safe for a few days now. 

"I'll sleep where you let me," Crowley answers. His eyes are in the book, but he's tense and biting his lips.

"You don't have to hold yourself in front of me, you know that, right, my dear boy?"

Crowley curses under his breath. 

"Just… make yourself at home, my dear."

Aziraphale retreats to his bedroom. He puts his pyjamas on, turns off the light, tries to calm down under his blanket, in his bed.

He's sleepless and restless, however. He listens to the sounds of Crowley in his shower. 

He knows he won't rest, won't sleep until Crowley is safe and sound, but then Crowley is behind him, wearing the softest pyjamas, breathing down Aziraphale's neck - but it's not overbearing, it's not threatening. 

"Better?" Crowley whispers.

"Much. Thank you, Crowley."

"Good night, angel."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The double update that was promised. There's some angst.

Aziraphale has a few days before his next haul. Usually he spends such days reading and walking, feeding ducks, going to a museum. He wants to do it all with Crowley now, to show him around, maybe take him to a play. 

Crowley has other plans. With his new phone and therefore internet connection, he finds himself a few jobs - and, to his horror, a few gigs as well. He's become an internet sensation, there are people pestering his Facebook page, and while Crowley is scared, he reasons that he can earn more with his viola. He refuses interviews. 

"You don't have to do it, dear boy! We could go and feed ducks!"

"I know, angel. I want to… I have to earn my keep, ok?" And Crowley absent-mindedly reaches out to Aziraphale's face and cups it gently with one hand, twitchy fingers tender and rough.

The touch is gone the very next moment, but the twitching on Aziraphale's skin turns into tingling and tingling taunts evolution and becomes yearning. 

Crowley is mostly out, but he always returns with something sweet for Aziraphale. Somehow he does all the laundry and even tries ironing but Aziraphale catches him almost ironing his own hand, so Crowley is banned from the ironing. 

Once Aziraphale gets his rout list, Crowley makes sure to secure himself a few more gigs. 

The day of their departure Aziraphale shows Crowley his first edition Proust. He never takes it with him but it's another thing he wants to share with Crowley. Actually, and Aziraphale is embarrassed about it, he wants to bring Crowley everything he finds dear and show it to him, like an infatuated puppy. 

"Looks like your retirement plan," Crowley jokes, examining Proust. 

"Might be, might be."

"You shouldn't take it with you. Might be dangerous," Crowley warns. 

"You'll protect me, though, won't you?" Aziraphale hopes he's joking. 

"Of course I will. And no one has to know, after all."

Crowley grabs their moveable garden and they head out.

The first night on the road Crowley climbs to the bed before Aziraphale. It feels natural, mundane in the sweetest way. 

Aziraphale finds him with his arm behind his head and reading something on his phone. 

"It can't be comfortable," Aziraphale remarks, settling next to Crowley. 

"No, but Kindle is not in my plans so far," Crowley replies, squinting at the screen.

"We should put it there," Aziraphale says. He pretends, for himself, that  _ we  _ is just a common way of saying things. Yet again, nothing is just here. Aziraphale opens his Proust.

Crowley puts his phone down and turns to lie on his side. "How many times have you read it?" He asks and looks as if he's trying to calculate the number judging by Aziraphale's face. 

"Far too many?" Aziraphale offers. 

"So why don't you read it to me then?" 

"There's a daddy joke somewhere here," Aziraphale sighs.

"Never had one," Crowley shrugs. 

"And you're not making the situation any better."

Crowley rubs his face. "You're not my dad!" He says in the brattiest voice possible.

"Oh, now we're talking!" They both smile and giggle. 

Aziraphale falls asleep reading to Crowley and Crowley almost does too, but he has enough presence of mind to turn the light off and carefully pull the book from Aziraphale's fingers. 

He gingerly puts it on the floor, his mind occupied by the fact that he needs to lean over Aziraphale to do it. And he knows that it's not the way to keep a first edition Proust but he's too sleepy.

And in the morning Crowley gets up first. He really needs to pee and take care of Aziraphale's tea, so he doesn't feel and doesn't notice when his bare heel pushes the book far under the bed. 

He runs to the gas station, uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth, shaves, meticulously packs all his toiletries (however few) into a knitted bag his mom made a long time ago and steps into the shop. 

His gaze lands on the flowers. He bites his lip, tries to smother a series of curses, hides his trembling hands in his pockets. He stands there and looks at the flowers. There are daffodils, which are in a sorry state, but this way the remind him even more of Aziraphale, the way he looks in the morning. It would be foolish, he thinks, but anything can be turned into a joke. He might tell Aziraphale that a shitty daffodil reminded Crowley of him… 

No, he shouldn't. He asks the shopkeep to fill Aziraphale's thermocup with hot water, finds a decently looking croissant - there's good tea and some cheddar in his bag back in the truck, and then he turns to the flowers again. 

***

Aziraphale wakes up alone. He checks the time - it's still early, there's time for everything. Crowley must be back soon, or maybe he's waiting for Aziraphale outside. 

Aziraphale smiles, pats his chest and belly, searching for the familiar weight of Proust - and doesn't find it. 

He sits up in panic and looks around. 

He checks by the bed and fumbles blindly under it. 

Crowley's remark about retirement plan and having no money for Kindle comes back to his mind.

The point is, Aziraphale doesn't trust easily, but he loves to trust, loves to find comfort in companionship, not that he has had much of it lately. He trusted Crowley, and now Crowley is nowhere to be seen, along with the book. 

Aziraphale hastily climbs down and checks for Crowley's things. They are safely stored behind the seats. Aziraphale is really tempted to look through them, if Crowley thinks Aziraphale so stupid that he won't check in Crowley's backpack or his viola case, and really, Aziraphale was a fool to trust Crowley, to let that boy into his home and his head and his bed, and Crowley hasn't stolen anything so far, and maybe Aziraphale just hasn't noticed, hasn't checked…

Panic rises in Aziraphale's throat, his face is sticky with sweat, his heart is pounding, his mind is running in circles - madly and hopelessly. 

Crowley climbs in with curses - and flowers and Aziraphale's thermos, his eyes hidden and his twitching and constant moving worse than usual. 

"Hey angel. Look what I found! They are just as shitty looking as you right now and you're all still pretty!" Crowley is wearing a very tight grin. He's pale but his cheekbones seem hot to the touch. 

"What's wrong, angel?"

Aziraphale wants to yell at him and hit him and curse him and toss him out of his truck and kick him into the dust. "Where… where is my book, Crowley?" His voice is trembling like Crowley's hands. 

"The book? Proust?" Crowley scratches his forehead. Tugs off his sunglasses. He looks just as lost as Aziraphale's Proust and peace of mind.

"Yes."

"You fell asleep reading it… I almost did too… No a critique," Crowley laughs without laughing. "I put it on the floor by the bed. Must have pushed it under it on my way out when I woke up. Did you check?"

"I did."

"Ok. Let me double check?" 

"Please."

Crowley nods and intends to go up to the cabin's sleeping space but then he turns sharply back. "Check my bags. That's what you thought, right? Check them. For both of us. And there's your tea and cheddar to go with your croissant."

Aziraphale stares as Crowley's long legs disappear, then stares at the dashboard - their garden, shitty daffodils, Aziraphale's cup, a greasy paper bag.

There are curses above Aziraphale's head, which is fitting, then some fumbling, the sound of Crowley grumping that he's not a fucking thief and even less of a fucking contortionist, but he emerges soon after, a cloud of dust on his red hair and the book in his hand. 

"It's…" He sneezes. "A dust fest under the bed, angel. Here."

Aziraphale numbly takes the book. Crowley nods.

And suddenly he's crying, heartbroken, sobbing and alone. Sobs turn to howl, he rushes out of the truck before Aziraphale can grab him and hold him close. 

Aziraphale rushes after him all the same. Crowley is sitting by the wheels and cries. His shoulders, his whole body is shaking, unable to contain his sorrow and his hurt. 

"I'm so sorry, my dear. I'm sorry, I really am… Darling." Aziraphale sits next to him and finally - finally! - holds him close. 

"I… don't… blame… you…" Crowley manages to say through the sobs. 

"You should. You didn't deserve my suspicions. I'm sorry… please, my sweet, sweet darling, please, don't cry."

Crowley keeps crying. Aziraphale touches his hair and wet face, laces their fingers together. 

"The flowers are shitty indeed. Do I look that bad in the morning?" Aziraphale tries to smile, fights back his own tears. It wouldn't do to be crying together, although it wouldn't be so bad to cry with Crowley. 

"They… are… still… pretty. And so are you." Crowley raises his head and looks at Aziraphale with fierce tenderness. "So are you. Pale and bright and blue-eyed. Should put it on a t-shirt."

"We'll put it on a t-shirt. I'm sorry, Crowley. I'm so sorry."

"Shut it!" Crowley sticks his wet nose under Aziraphale's ear and Aziraphale discovers he doesn't mind. Crowley's snot is gold, apparently. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been no kiss and Goethe was mentioned in the third chapter. It's a slow burn!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I give up. They kiss.

Their, well, Aziraphale's final destination is Glasgow where Crowley has a gig in a quite popular pub. 

Crowley takes advantage of the internet, gets in touch with buskers, in short seems to have accepted that playing the viola in pubs brings him (them, Crowley thinks) more money. 

And actually fuck that Kindle. Aziraphale reads Proust to him and falls asleep next to Crowley. Crowley is always the big spoon. Aziraphale might joke and ponder, might regard their dynamics as untraditional, but to Crowley there's nothing illogical about the fact that he holds Aziraphale safe. Yes, it should be so. 

There's a pot with daffodils on the dashboard now. Crowley thinks that rosemary gets really snobbish, which he both admires and refuses to accept. 

Aziraphale doesn't mind when Crowley practices during the day. Crowley doesn't mind audiobooks. He prefers Aziraphale's voice, but he's not a demanding person. 

He's just finished his performance in Glasgow when he's approached by a young woman whose sense of fashion is akin to Aziraphale's, that is if there's a chance to wear something plaid, Aziraphale won't miss it and the woman is of the same opinion. 

Crowley looks around the place. Aziraphale nods at him from a relatively quiet corner where he sits with a cup of tea. Crowley knows that Aziraphale loves wine, and it pains Crowley that Aziraphale can't indulge himself. Were Crowley an alchemist, he'd find a way to make stealthily alcoholic wine. His thoughts begin to travel to the questions of transformation, transfiguration and terroir, but the woman brings him back. 

"I'm Ana Device," she introduces herself. Crowley filters her out, because Aziraphale pointedly isn't looking at him. He's uncomfortable and sad. 

_Oh,_ Crowley thinks. _Oh shit fuck damn it blast it damn damn damn_

"Could you email me?" Crowley forces himself to look back at Ana Device. 

"You haven't heard a word I just said, right?" She laughs. 

"Should be sorry. Am not."

"I'll find a way to contact you. It might be a start of a fruitful career."

"Sure." Crowley waves at her, already making his way towards Aziraphale. 

"Plans for the evening?" Aziraphale asks. He's so sad that Crowley shakes with the absolute need to bring him everything he might want. Moon would do. Rings of Saturn. Less shitty flowers. A cake. Anything. Crowley feels his knees getting weak and failing him just a bit. "What's wrong, angel?"

"Nothing's wrong, my dear. Thank you for informing…"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Aziraphale nods behind Crowley. Behind Crowley, as Crowley turns to check, Ana raises a glass in greeting from across the place. 

"This… her name is Ana. I stopped listening after that, to be honest. She's said something about my career. I don't care. Why don't we get back and have some sleep? You're tired…"

"Don't… I don't want you to feel… tied to me. Obliged to stay. You don't need to. Go, have fun, b…"

"Shut up!" Crowley grabs Aziraphale's hand and drags him outside. "Shut up! Shut up! Do you want me to go? Do you want to be alone for some time? Some time for yourself? What do you want?" Crowley is so desperate he wants to tear his hair out. "Should I go? Do you want me to go?"

"N… no, my dear. I don't want you to go and I don't want to be alone," Aziraphale replies sincerely. 

"Then I'm not leaving you until you want me to." Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders to steady himself. "I don't want to be anywhere else, ok? I don't want to have any _fun_ if I can't share it with you. Let's get back and sleep. Or read Proust. Or anything."

Back in the motel on the outskirts of Glasgow Crowley procures some hot water for Aziraphale's evening tea while Aziraphale is showering. Crowley showered before his performance but he is sure he needs another shower. That need, added to the thought of Aziraphale in the shower, results in a mixture of annoyance and arousal, which Crowley finds confounding and maddening. 

The moment Aziraphale steps out of the bathroom, Crowley shoots past and behind him and closes the door. 

"You alright, dear boy? Is your stomach bothering you?" Aziraphale asks. 

"No. I'm fine. Just sweaty and dirty. Feel like a fucking horse. Hate horses. Always out for my knees, bastards!" Crowley continues ranting from behind the door and from under the shower. Aziraphale shakes his head - and feels so fond it's heavy, the way his affection for the younger man settles in his chest and snuggles up as a lump in his throat and a light buzzing in his own stomach. It feels good, it feels true. 

Aziraphale sips his tea and reads Proust waiting for Crowley to emerge which he eventually does, wet as a hard-working rat, furiously drying off his hair. 

"Dear boy, such treatment can't be good for your hair."

"Says the angel who has never treated his own curls as anything but nuisance!"

"Mine are not that pretty."

"Oi! Angel, you're pretty." Crowley drops himself next to Aziraphale, leaning back on his elbows. 

"We should sleep," Aziraphale says, far too fondly, but it's too much for him to hold this feeling within. He'd melt down like a tender candle otherwise. 

Crowley nods and stands up to turn off the lights. 

The bed isn't big enough for two, but is too big for one, and they never argue about this arrangement. Aziraphale sleeps better when Crowley is near, and that seems to be quite enough for Crowley to hold him at night. 

The room isn't entirely dark, there are streetlights peeking in, flowing inside in all their orange glory. There are sounds coming in too, but they are careful, trying to be quiet. 

Aziraphale lies with his back to Crowley's chest, Crowley's arm over Aziraphale's middle, their fingers intertwined. Aziraphale can see the way Crowley's fingers twitch, can feel trembling and unintentional touches on his skin. And for the first time in years, if not in his life, Aziraphale feels his blood rush, speed up, making Aziraphale hot, making his breath hitch. He squeezes Crowley's hand in his and slowly turns around to look at Crowley. 

The young man is gazing at Aziraphale, his eyes aglow, more otherworldly than ever, and he's more serious than ever.

"Your eyes shine," Crowley rasps. 

Aziraphale doesn't know what to answer, besides his breath doesn't obey him enough for him to let out a word, so he just looks back at Crowley, hoping that Crowley understands what Aziraphale doesn't want to fully process yet. 

Crowley leans in, slowly and never taking his eyes off Aziraphale. 

"May I?" He asks. 

Aziraphale nods. Crowley leans in closer, stops. "Whatever happens, I won't leave you. You're my home, angel." He closes the gap between them, letting out a choked groan when their lips touch. 

Aziraphale hasn't ever been patient, and he darts his tongue out to lick Crowley's bottom lip but a moment after the kiss began. Crowley's mouth opens wider, welcoming - and a home too. 

They come out for air - but Crowley kisses Aziraphale's face, and ears, and hairline, his fingers ghost over Aziraphale's curls.

"Nothing more today," Crowley asks. "Please… I won't be able to get it up."

"Thought you were the young one here," Aziraphale teases breathlessly. 

"There's a bit more than physiology involved." Crowley kisses the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. "And for you, I'm not young. For you I'm older than the universe and extremely inexperienced all the same…" 

Aziraphale leans up to kiss him again. They fall asleep facing each other and holding hands.

***

Ana is a music producer and she has a deal to offer to Crowley. 

Crowley writes her a polite negative answer. 

Then he does tear at his hair, to Aziraphale's worry which might affect his driving. 

"I don't want a fucking career! Who the fuck does? I don't! No, shit, damn… no!" An entire fleet of drunken sailors is put to shame. 

Aziraphale manages to understand what seems to be the issue. 

"But my dear! This is a chance for you!"

"Chance at what? I don't want fame! I don't want a career. I never had any time to think about it, and I'm not leaving you!"

"You don't have to leave me, Crowley. You can still do your… Thing."

"I can do gigs in pubs. Can busk. Can do all sorts of random jobs. I don't have… I… You're my home. You don't pry a turtle out of its shell."

"I'm honoured, my dear, and I'm happy to have been able to help you. You shouldn't…"

"Tie myself to you?" Crowley asks bitterly. Aziraphale is glad he has to look on the road. 

"Stay as long as you like. But you should think…"

"I think too fucking much, angel. I just fucking want to be fucking happy!"

"And are you? Happy?"

"I am fucking elated!" Crowley doesn't sound elated but Aziraphale believes him. 

"You're right, Crowley. I might be smug about it but… I'm glad you want to stay with me."

Crowley smiles so giddily daffodils try to bloom harder. Aziraphale can't help laughing. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ehm... Kinda smut?

The drive  _ home  _ is peaceful and happy. Aziraphale doesn't let himself overthink and Crowley dotes on him and holds him at night. 

It's one such night, they are about to turn the lights off but Aziraphale cannot seem to care about the lights because Crowley is next to him, they are kissing and it makes the insides of Aziraphale's eyelids brighter than any other light. 

Every time Crowley tries to pull away, Aziraphale pulls him back, to which Crowley responds with a laugh and eagerness. "Just didn't want you to be breathless, angel."

"No, darling, take my breath away."

Crowley hums  _ Take My Breath Away  _ into the next kiss. His fingers are light and restless on Aziraphale's chest. Aziraphale wants to will away his shirt, to melt into Crowley's touch. 

It's one of the things Aziraphale forces himself not to overthink - Crowley doesn't try to get under Aziraphale's clothes, although, his eyes and his kisses are heated and even urgent sometimes.

"Take my shirt off," Aziraphale asks. It takes every bit of courage he has, but Crowley's eyes blow wide and his hands shake so much and he curses so much that he barely manages to remove the garment without tearing it to pieces or curse it and its forebears for generations. 

"I want you… can I?" Crowley asks. He looks… deranged. Aziraphale has seen him like that only when there's music involved. 

Aziraphale nods - and moans when Crowley immediately dives for Aziraphale's neck and shoulders, wet and sloppy and messy. 

"You're licking or kissing me, darling?" Aziraphale teases. It's admirable that he can, seeing as his skin is tingling with every touch Crowley gives him and he gives Aziraphale a lot of those touches. 

"Don't know. You taste so good… fuck, angel, I want you."

Aziraphale notices that he's trying to remove his pants and underwear and that Crowley is just watching him reveal more skin for him to kiss and nip at. 

Crowley puts his mouth on Aziraphale with a sound which is neither a moan nor a sob, but is apparently some perfect audial expression of yearning. As if Crowley had been wanting to do just that. 

"Darling… I'm… filthy. Darling. Your hands will do…" It's been so long that Aziraphale feels created and given shape where Crowley touches him, kisses him, licks him.

"Want me to stop, angel?"

"Fuck, no. I'm just being… concerned."

"No need. Love you." Crowley must have failed to notice what he's said and Aziraphale doesn't have enough presence of mind to point it out. It feels too good, to have Crowley there between his legs, silky hair tickling Aziraphale's inner thighs, rubbing gently, there's not a point of discomfort, no thing out of the place in the world. Aziraphale is certain that he'd never change anything about this moment - let it be like that, in this limited space, in his truck, on the road. The circumstances are never kind, are never perfect, but this, here is nothing but perfect. It's all round pleasure swaying and swinging in the air, tingling like a good shower and cranberry sauce. 

"Crowley… Crowley… Oh, my sweet boy…"

"Stop?" 

"No, fuck, no, don't you dare. More…"

"Everything."

"Then you should get undressed too and… look at me… but don't… don't stop…"

Crowley squirms and writhes, getting rid of his clothes - and then he snakes his way up Aziraphale's body, leaving no inch untouched or unconnected. His eyes glow above Aziraphale's. "Hello there, angel."

"Hello, darling." Aziraphale holds his face, lifts himself press closer into Crowley. 

Crowley moves his hips just enough to get a hand between their bodies and grab a hold of them both. "There, angel. Yesssss…" His sweet hiss is lost in Aziraphale's skin. Crowley curses loudly and filthily, which Aziraphale uncharacteristically finds endearing. Crowley curses the entire universe and all of the creation, claiming every fucking particle is a filthy traitorous fucking shitty undiscovered piece in the matter of the universe and that the dark matter better never come anywhere close to them or more importantly, between them. His hands are soft but move with purpose and twitch so that Aziraphale is losing his mind with that much sensation.

"Come for me, beautiful, come for me or I'll die," Crowley asks seriously, looking Aziraphale in the eye, opening his mouth wider, mirroring Aziraphale's expressions with the underlying concern, such care, such tenderness that should be enough to cause another big bang.

Aziraphale can't help screaming with delight, he's laughing and crying, and Crowley kisses and licks both off his face. 

"Oh, there you are… yes. So beautiful."

"You come too, darling. If we're making a mess of ourselves…"

Crowley comes with a laugh of his own and another string of curses. Aziraphale can't really be sorry for the universe that Crowley is condemning for just being there and having all those stupid laws that don't let them melt together and fly around like two tenderly interlacing waves. 

"Boom," Crowley says softly into Aziraphale's shoulder. 

"Indeed," Aziraphale agrees. 

Crowley pats and fumbles around them until he finds something - it's his own underwear which he uses to clean them both. 

"I want to live in your breast pocket," Crowley informs. 

Aziraphale swallows around a quote from Song of Songs, because it's pretty archaic, and there were no breast pockets back then. 

And Crowley is too considerate to just build himself a house in Aziraphale's heart uninvited, to put a seal on any part of Aziraphale's… And yet he's done it with the unassuming grace of a vine. He's grown there because there was space. And because the space seemed lonely…

Oh bugger all, Aziraphale is just sleepy, and he sleeps surrounded by his ever sprawling lover. 

***

"I hate mornings," Crowley says bitterly into the sunrise the next day. He's brought Aziraphale his tea and roasted some tomatoes for him. 

"If you stand with your back to the sun and your face to me we can… linger a bit."

Crowley does just that, pushing his forehead against Aziraphale's. 

"What Goethe says about the darkness… totally," Crowley whispers. 

"Indeed. There will be more nights still. As many as you want."

Crowley holds him close and kisses his nose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively, Crowley has post coital blues. As far as Crowley is concerned they need to spend the eternity naked and in love. Young love...


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale wakes up in his bed and alone. It's that peculiar hour of the night when it's neither too late, nor too early - the liminal hour, that one has to make through, and if one is lucky, to relish it. 

Aziraphale thinks he's likely to relish it. He has all the reasons to do so… 

He looks around, listens to the sounds outside. It's raining, everything is both soft and loud and Crowley is barely a shadow by the window, but Aziraphale can see that Crowley is still naked and holding a cup of something steaming. 

"Darling?" Aziraphale calls and gets up. He's naked too, and he couldn't care any less. He hasn't cared for the last few days. 

"Sorry, angel. Rain…" Crowley waves his cup in the air. 

Aziraphale walks up to him and holds him from behind, nuzzling that copper hair and that tender ear and that sharp cheekbone… He'd nuzzle him whole all the time. He always smells so good, all of him, even after a couple of days without a shower. 

"Scared me. Dreamed… I was alone by the road and… and no one came… I knew you'd come. But I didn't watch the dream for that long." Crowley chuckles self-consciously and sips his mint tea. They have mint now too. They've been back home for such a short time! Crowley has asked Aziraphale to have a few days just for them and nothing else, and here the rain comes, ruining everything. 

"This is ridiculous, I am ridiculous, angel."

Aziraphale used to be so good with words, brilliant even, according to some, but he can't say anything even remotely brilliant, he's feeling frankly feral - he wants to swallow Crowley whole, to keep him safe and dry, to tend to him and to love him. He holds him tighter and stronger, pushes his nose into Crowley's hair. 

"You're not ridiculous. It's alright… Fuck, darling, it's more than alright!"

"I want to protect you, angel. To take care of you."

"You are doing it all. Let me do the same." Aziraphale pries the cup out of Crowley's fingers and tugs him back to bed. "Fuck the rain. We're safe here. We have a roof over our heads, we have enough money to be comfortable for at least some time. We'll sort it out…" Aziraphale cradles Crowley. 

Crowley is silent but he holds on to Aziraphale. 

"I'm safer with you than I have ever been, Crowley. I can be naked with you. That privilege has always belonged to the shower. Well, mostly."

"You're a fucking blushing virgin." Crowley sniffles. 

"Love, I was embarrassed and you laughed while still inside me. That's a new sensation."

"For me as well. We've barely started, angel."

"Now you're being critical and unnecessarily so."

"Nah, I love you, angel."

Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley's head and caresses his shoulder. "I think I performed admirably in the end. You were reduced to  _ ngk.  _ I count it as a win."

Crowley laughs into the crook of Aziraphale's neck. 

The rain eventually stops, or it tries to tread more carefully, more quietly. 

"You know, angel… Ana keeps pestering me. Making me offers she thinks I can't refuse."

"I thought that privilege belonged to me," Aziraphale chuckles.

"Absolutely. Told her so. In the end  _ I  _ made her an offer  _ she  _ couldn't refuse. I told her I record only when we're in London. And perform only here or somewhere on our way without it causing any inconveniences to you. Once I've earned enough money for us to… do whatever it is we want to, I leave. It's stressful enough as it is." Crowley shifts his shoulders, cozying up even closer to Aziraphale, which shouldn't be molecularly possible, but Crowley manages. 

"And what do you want us to do, Crowley?" Maybe Crowley can hear Aziraphale's heartbeat, but Aziraphale can feel Crowley's ear over his heart, and it's safer. Crowley is attuning himself to Aziraphale, he's putting his ear over Aziraphale's heart and he listens to Aziraphale's heart. It might be just an ear, but it's Crowley's ear; it's a dome over Aziraphale. 

"How about… a home for us? Somewhere by the sea? You can retire if you want. Can read books all day. We could have a garden… I could grow us vegetables and flowers. We could get a cow, maybe. Might take longer to earn enough for a cottage and a cow…"

"I think I could buy us a cow. I don't want a cow, to be honest, but if you want one…" Aziraphale kisses Crowley's lips this time. It's been about ten minutes since he did it last time. 

"No! We don't have to get a cow. Goats are cute, though… Anyhow, it will take some time for me…"

"Darling, you keep… taking it upon yourself to do everything. I want to do something too. I think I could be happy anywhere. With you."

"Thank you, angel." Crowley kisses Aziraphale's chest over his heart. "Just… I'm sorry. I'm getting overbearing."

"You're young, it happens."

"I want to be older, angel."

"It will come, don't worry, my love… Can you hear it?"

"The rain is over."

"It's been over for some time. Let's sleep some more. We'll talk more in the morning."

"We will… I will be here, angel."

"So will I, Crowley." 


End file.
